Immortal
by jae-vous
Summary: The legend claims Aphrodite was born from the sea, of beauty, brought forth by the almighty Zeus. And he can't help drawing comparisons. Another contrived alphabet series surrounding T/Z.
1. A

**_I've been seriously slacking off with writing, with winter break, moving abroad, school beginning - so i need to spark those creative juices into flowing. hence this little challenge. _**

**_jae_**

* * *

**Aphrodite**

_You are not human_, he thinks, watching her shed the red, silken gown - the final charade from their mission undercover. But the mission's over now.

He must have said the words aloud, because a smile curves her lips as the bed dips with her weight, one bare leg sliding along the sheets, followed by the other. Slowly she crawls toward him. The look in her eyes is familiar as of late; a sea of emotion, dangerous as rolling tides - swirling with love and desire and something beyond their fragile human world.

Legend claims Aphrodite was born from the sea, of beauty, brought forth by the almighty Zeus. And he can't help drawing comparisons. For Eli's power made him equally inhuman, his empathy extinguished by his desire to destroy. Subsequent beauty was born from such disaster.

A legend brought to life.

He wonders idly how long a mere human can last under the spell of such divinity.

She hovers over his body, a storm brewing in her eyes that promises the most exquisite form of destruction. Or a promise of smooth sailing. He can't be sure.

His fate was sealed long ago.

He may be only human, but her love will make him immortal.


	2. B

**Bared **

He tries to kiss all of where she hurts. Every line, every scar.

"You will run out lips," she moans between each kiss. "You will run out of air."

He smiles against her skin. He will kiss her forever if he has to.

Removing the last, lacy barrier – a slow and deliberate movement – he beholds her in rare form, indeed. She's so very captivating without a single barrier to defend herself with. She was a different woman from the one they left on the tarmac. But no less alluring.

No. Perhaps even more.

His hand skims along her thigh, ghosting across her hip, her ribcage, encountering only smooth, bare skin. He pulls back to press a kiss against her jaw, resting his ear above her heart.

_Ba dum. Ba dum. Ba dum._

She left many things in that cell, the tiny pocket of earth indistinguishable from hell.

It isn't until she finds her confidence that she realized she lost it somewhere in the desert sand.

Bared before him now, she's no longer a captive to the desert.

She feels so very free.


	3. C

**Call**

Once, twice, three times. The fourth ring spurs a growl, muffled by cotton and pillow.

_"Hit ignore."_

His hand on her hip grips her tighter, but she must pull away. Rolling still within his grasp, she reaches blindly for the bedside table, searching for the offending noise and subsequent device. To ignore the call would be nothing short of treason against their code - at least, in their leader's mind. Though, in reality, they've long since declared mutiny. Their union, though undisclosed, places them in the line of fire. But the secrecy makes it more... intimate. The temptation was too hard to resist.

A kiss to her neck causes her to prevaricate from any proper greetings.

"Ziva? You there?"

She hums in what she hopes is an adequate reply. She already forgets the question. Her mind is awake enough to register their coworker's voice, however.

Tony's lips search lower.

"I'm sorry to wake you this early, but Gibbs got a call - We've got a crime scene."

In a half induced haze of sleep deprivation and lust, she mumbles in reply while her hand scratches through Tony's hair. His deep laugh rumbles low against her belly. In her ear, McGee stammers on, and she registers words like _crime scene_ and _one hour_ and _headquarters_.

Her grip tightens in Tony's hair.

"... And I still have to call DiN -"

"We will be there shortly." She clicks _end_ without listening, and McGee's voice falters after the line goes dead, leaving him to answer a steely gaze as he fumbles over why calling their Senior Field agent won't be necessary.

The significance of proper pronouns is lost on her at 2 A.M.


	4. D

**Detonate**

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

The hum of the device is a constant buzzing in his ears. One he's sure he will hear for the weeks to come.

If they make it out of here alive, that is.

"Ziva..." A warning.

Normally, the edge in his voice makes her stomach flutter. But not now. She ignores him, teeth worrying her lip as nimble fingers lift the cover, thread through tangles of wires.

"Two minutes."

She pulls at a wire. The timer picks up speed.

_Crap._

"You are not helping."

"The beeping is getting faster."

He can't stop himself from steering towards flippancy. Her answering eye-roll proclaims she's unimpressed. They're polar opposites on the spectrum of Crisis Management, and it's not the first time she's wondered if it's what makes them a perfect fit.

Or a perfect mess.

She skips over a blue wire. Taps at a yellow. Are those three different black wires he counts?

"You can run."

She says it leisurely, with the air of someone who knows the answer yet serves the remark anyway. She can be flippant, too.

Contrite, he pulls it together, hunkers down and brackets her hunched frame with his knees from behind. He stares over her shoulder in a way that oddly calms her more than it annoys her. "You're just saying that because you know you can outrun me." She smirks at that, loops her finger through another tangled wire and...

_Snip_.

The ticking picks up speed. She works through the tangle with a hint of urgency in her movement, and he doesn't like the way her hands suddenly hover over two coinciding wires, fingers fidgeting and twitching. In contrast, his hands have never appreciated stillness. When he's moving, he's efficient. Not her.

A decade has made him familiar to her tells. "What is it?" He urges softly. He can't see her face, but he can detect the waver in her voice few are attuned to.

"It is... _one_ of these." There's an edge there, as if he won't like what she's about to say next. "If you leave now..."

"No." He cuts her off firmly. He knows what she's thinking and refuses for her to say it aloud. She is genetically engineered to fight him on everything. He's surprised when her request instead is soft, pleading.

"Tony, _please_." Her voice breaks, and it strikes him hard and fast, how much she says in those few syllables. She cannot bear his blood on her hands, can't fathom the possibility of him being wiped away. Perhaps that is what has unnerved her. After all, defusing bombs is second nature to Ninjas.

"Together?" He shifts closer, his knees touching her sides. She eyes the wires, sea-foam green and fire red. She reaches her decision before Tony's hand wraps around hers.

Their eyes squeeze shut.

The ticking stops.

He blinks again only when he registers her pulse beating a rapid tempo under his fingers, when he's sure they have not been blasted into oblivion. Under their hands, the sea-foam wire is now severed.

"Lucky guess." He chuckles, dropping his forehead to rest briefly against her sagging shoulders. She breathes out a sigh. "How'd you know?"

She glances around to meet his eyes. Clear, alive, seeing.

The color of sea-foam green.

He's saved her every time before. Wasn't it the logical choice?


	5. E

_**As for the brief hiatus - I went on a last minute trip to Switzerland for the weekend. Wow. What a beautiful country.**_

_** Forgive me, and enjoy :)**_

_**jae**_

* * *

**Elope**

Under the cover of twinkling lights and a warm summer night, guests are called from far and near to the dance floor just as the sun begins to set. Soft hues of orange and pink and red tinge the sky, and he can't help but think there's a correlation between the beautiful evening and the atmosphere tonight. The guests are aglow, soft laughter emanates from all corners of the lawn, and the setting sun casts a spectacular glow on the woman beside him. She's caught him staring at her from across the table all throughout the evening, and normally, he'd practice more covert glances. But he cannot help himself tonight. She does not seem to mind, for she meets his every gaze with a shy smile that is pleased, no doubt, but mostly enigmatic.

He loves seeing her like this. Her posture relaxed, a smile loosened by bottomless mojitos. Laughter and happiness, abound, and he's never felt more sure than he feels tonight that, _this – _this was within their grasp.

A melancholy smile tugs at her lips as her eyes roam the dance floor; fathers and their daughters falling into step, swaying and twirling as a classic melody hums on, gaining in volume. Ziva's lips part to mouth the lyrics to the song, and he's struck by surprise she knows the words, and well it seems. He's transfixed, fascinated. Once more, he finds himself under her spell.

Before she can reach the end of the verse, a shadow looms over them. They both look up to their bosses face. His lips loosened by bourbon, an ease in his stance. It reminds him that for tonight, he's not their team leader – not their boss, nor federal agent.

But he is someone's father.

He taps her gently on her hand, lifting her fingers and fitting them over his palm. Ziva's smile falters briefly, confusion in her eyes. He inclines his head toward the dance floor.

"C'mon, kid."

Gibbs doesn't give her a chance to decline. He remains seated, watching as she's pulled from her seat, and he reaches easily to relieve her of her glass, giving her a wink that makes her cheeks flush. She loops her arm through the older man's as he escorts her to the floor, her dress sweeping over their feet as he twirls with a crooked smile. He whispers something into her ear as her head comes to rest against his shoulder.

Her answering laughter is its own melody.

* * *

She inhales deeply, breathing in the scent of coffee and sawdust and aftershave. All of these scents, combined, are uniquely and undefinably him. It reminds her she's safe, and whole, and home.

His voice murmurs against her ear.

"This will be your day soon."

Ziva exhales with a chuckle, following his lead as he turns her slowly along the floor. "Perhaps," She concedes, eyes roaming the other guests twirling around them. Her gaze fall upon the reason for their attendance this evening. "McGee appears to be happy."

Gibbs gives her a twirl, his eyes twinkling as he gains another laugh from her. "You can be too, Ziver."

Her eyes drift to her partner unconsciously. If Gibbs notices, he does not say. But he gives her a knowing look.

"I am happy." She reasons, resting her chin upon his shoulder to avoid his gaze. It does not help when she finds Tony's eyes behind his back. His smile melts her to her bones. She tears her eyes away, settles them on the lights twinkling overhead. "For now, this is enough."

He hums along with the song's chorus, mulling over his thoughts. His voice comes out soft. "Don't rob me of the chance to walk you down the isle, David."

She swallows over the lump in her throat, giving him a watery laugh. "What if I elope?" She goes for levity, and feels him smirk against her cheek.

"The hell you are."

She chuckles as the song fades out, denoting the end. Still they sway, her back to the crowd now, and she feels Gibbs' hand tighten briefly at her back. "You deserve the chance Ziver. Take it." He pulls away, keeping a firm grasp on her hand as he turns his attention to someone behind her. She startles when she hears her partner's voice.

"May I cut in?"

Gibbs dips his head at her, relieving her hand from his grasp and placing it into Tony's. His steely gaze holds hers for long moment, then he turns to leave them as Abby is handed off to his awaiting arm by Ducky. With a last glance over his shoulder, he calls to them dryly. "DiNozzo's got two left feet, David. Watch out."

She laughs off Tony's look, loving the way his hands fold over her own. She slides her gaze over his body. "I'll lead," she calls over, her smile matching Tony's. Gibbs smirk is telling.

Against her ear, Tony utters softly.

"I'll follow."


	6. F

**Flight**

An hour ago, they had been arguing over the nutritional benefits of pizza for dinner. For the second night in a row. Now, she would eagerly trade her earlier refusal for acceptance of the re-heated pie, had she known the alternative would be stomping through a crime scene with an empty stomach.

Dark, damp, and a chill that seeks root in the marrow of their bones, they trudge along a path better tread in day light; a forest is no place for the dead, and it's no place for Armani loafers, which her partner mourns for with every sinking step they take in the mud and leaves. Dual flashlights lead the way, spots of light that jump from tree to forest floor, bouncing and intersecting with a feverish intensity. For what they search for, they'd rather not have to seek.

But one cannot qualify duty, nor the orders they've been dealt. It is in their oath, and so they must abide.

Her thoughts draw her from the procession of men leading the way, and so she misses the way they dive, dip, duck and dodge a low hanging branch and fallen log. He senses her distress before she does; though he's attuned to her every movement, he's on high alert these days. And for good reason.

His hand tightens around her bicep just before her feet give way to the slippery earth. Her grip is stronger than death's, and he's fortunate the dark masks the grimace of pain on his face. But he does not mind. She is precious cargo, and the contents beneath; priceless.

Her cheeks flare with heat, but embarrassment is easily ignored as their hands join on instinct against her abdomen.

"Thank you." She breaths quietly, as he moves closer to inspect her intently.

"You really shouldn't be out here." He keeps his tone light, careful, as though afraid to encroach on a subject that stands to be a point of contention. Her answering sigh is passive enough, as if she knows he is right but has already justified her transgressions.

"The timing is not right... _yet_." She prevaricates, throwing a glance toward the other two men that make up their team. Her partner follows her eyes and lowers his voice.

"We are running _out_ of time."

The two men have gained significant ground. She feels her partner nudge her forward, and together they follow the narrow path. "Soon," she sighs, but he takes the breathy exhalation for a promise. He understands her hesitation, her fear; has felt it himself the last seven and a half weeks.

They hear a faint _over here _called from far below a cliff. It's hard to make out the scene in the dark. By the time they've drawn near, though, they've resurrected the emergency flood lights from the depth of someone's backpack. Ziva's eyes fall on the body, and her stomach is suddenly thankful she forewent the choice of pizza entirely.

She doesn't notice the way her body freezes until her partner's touch thaws her.

* * *

Her partner immediately busies himself with formalities. It is something they are both adept at; falling into their role as seasoned agents, pushing aside their emotions to deal with later, or not at all. Still, this time it hits them closer to home.

_"Damn it."_ Tony curses. She eyes the broken pencil, the pad of paper indented harshly by the pencil's point. Calmly, she hands him her pen. It rolls around his fingers, as though he's examining its every angle.

"He was six, Ziva."

She knows he does not mean it as a question, but she hears at least a hundred in the statement alone. It pains her she does not have an answer for him. "The smallest coffins are the heaviest." She bends down beside him, her eyes looking toward the shrouded body only feet before them.

"These cases always sucked, you know?"

He rambles on, the words running into another, and she notes this is a habit of his for when he is masking a quake in his voice. She's not surprised when she looks over to see that his eyes are wet. "But God, Ziva... It's already different now."

A sad smile settles on her lips. She ghosts her hand across the shadow of stubble painted on his jaw, notes the way his eyes go from blue to green in the dark. Will their own child have such eyes? Always knowing, always so kind?

"I know." She murmurs, and there is a tremble in her voice, too. "It will always be different now."

Ziva's head tilts as she looks up at the night sky. The rain had ceased, and the moon shone bright and welcoming. He smiles. He's always loved the way she looked in the moonlight.

"How are we going to do this?"

The question's delivery suggests there is more than one answer that he seeks. She starts with what she knows she can give him. "Someone has to." She reasons, giving him a sad smile. "It is our duty, Tony. These small souls..." She gestures around, and he can see her mind searching or a comparison in a language he knows. "They have taken flight. And it is our duty to guide them home."

His smile warms her for the first time that evening, and he feels it in his bones, too. He's never fancied himself a Peter, nor her a Wendy. But it's a nice analogy for their dark duties, and the tale itself, after all, was shrouded in darkness too.

There are souls that take flight early. And if they do, they will be there to guide them home.


	7. G

**okay; maybe every day was a little ambitious on my part - studying abroad is quite distracting. **

**enjoy - and happy friday!**

_**jae**_

* * *

**Guardian**

_This is what angels must look like,_ he thinks; all dark curls and shallow breaths.

He feels each and every exhale. Ziva's breathing warms his neck, deep in slumber. Even in deep sleep, she cradles the infant in her arms protectively. His thumb follows a calming path he's predisposed to know along his sleeping daughter's cheek, up and down, brushing along the soft wisps of curls peeking out beneath a bright pink cap. Her lips curl up with a sudden smile, a minute reflex that is gone as quickly as it came.

He can't tear his eyes away.

He'd retained enough from Catholic school to remember the references of God's angels, and those he cast from heaven. Rejected by the Almighty, they were deposed to spend an eternity beneath the earth, sinners chained below in the very depths of hell. Even his younger self had never been able to reconcile such a fate. He was inclined to believe angels could walk amongst them. Fallen, but not forgotten.

For here lies irrefutable proof they still walk amongst them.

He supposed these angels were inclined to sin, having roamed the earth for too long and tempted by the devils among them. Surely she was guilty of her own sin. But he refused to believe she could not be redeemed.

God's infinite divine mercy must surely apply to her.

She had once mentioned there were few in her faith whom believed these fallen angels had not been cast away, but instead had come down to earth. A tale of angelic descent.

But even angels needed protection.

His eyes roam the woman before him; marked by sin, battle, redemption. He ghosts his hand down her shoulder, her side, cautious of the fresh scar she will add to her collection. The mark will not carry a painful memory, though. For this, he is infinitely grateful. To her, for this gift. To Him, for such mercy. When he presses his lips to her hair, there may be tears in his eyes.

Surely It must be a condemnable sin to want this much.

But the beauty of even being a lapsed Catholic is he can begin fresh each week. And he's been charged with protecting the divine. He must be redeemable, too, right?

For every angel needs a guardian. And in his arms he now holds two.


	8. H

_**Like I said, maybe every day was a little ambitious. But I'm getting these things done when and where I can - this one brought to you by a very bored fangirl sitting through a four class on the italian mafia. Hopefully I'll have a few more up before jetsetting off to Berlin this weekend - and perhaps I'll return with some inspiration for our favorite duo ;) Ah, Berlin. Before it all went to hell. **_

_**PS - are you all keeping up with the latest rumors? we just may be seeing a familiar face on NCIS soon ... ;)**_

_**jae**_

* * *

**Hostage**

His grip tightens on the door's handle as the car shifts into high gear. He can't help but press his foot into the floor; as if by doing so, the vehicle will propel forward with more velocity than Gibbs was already maintaining. Outside the window, buildings, people, places - they pass by and a flurry of color. The only thing clear is their intended destination.

They're running out of time.

Fury envelops him, crushing him from the outside, in. The panic in the car is as tangible as the air they breathe. He hardly notices his breaths coming in short, angry gasps. If Gibbs notices, he says nothing. He's too preoccupied with his own fear. He nearly forgets the phone in his free hand until a slight crunch alerts him to just how much pressure his grip is exerting. A crack of plastic denotes the phone's case giving way, and the detonation of his anger.

"_Fuck_!" His fist meets the dash. "Fuck, Fuck, Fuck." Tears blur his vision, but it has little to do with the throbbing now shooting through his arm.

* * *

Her patience wanes quickly as the line seems to come to an indeterminable halt. The bank is crowded, even for this hour, and a quick glance out the door tells her traffic will be at dead stop before they even make it to the pre-school. She was running late ten minutes ago.

Now, she's bordering on insubordinate.

She heaves a soft sigh and turns her attention the little girl beside her. A toothy grin flashes up at her, and she can't help the small smile that chases the frown from her face.

"Can we go to Grandpa's tonight?" The little girl blinks up at her sweetly.

Ziva bends down to tuck an errant curl behind her ear, straightening her small, grey peacoat whose collar had become disentangled with her backpack. "We will see," she hedges, and feels yet again the phone in her back pocket vibrate sporadically. If the frequent calls were anything to go by, it appeared likely that a new case would be keeping them from any activities this evening. Her daughter nods hopefully though, threading her fingers through Ziva's as she straightens up once more.

The vibrating in her pocket does not cease, though.

Ziva casts a troubled glance at the signs above the bank counter discouraging the use of phones while in line. She heaves another sigh, looking up the line at the same two men who'd been leaning against the teller desk the last time she checked. Around her, people had begun to talk lowly and with great irritation. She throws another glance at the teller desk, and that's when the back of her neck immediately prickles unpleasantly.

A shift of leather jacket, a movement just to the left.

And for a brief second, she sees the flash of gun, the terrified expression of the teller's face.

Her senses hit overdrive.

_Not here._ Her brain screams. _ Not now. _

Squeezing her daughter's hand has the desired effect without alerting anyone to the panic engulfing her. The little girl glances up immediately, and her smile gives way to a troubled expression that's so distinctly her father's. Her instincts, however, are much more her mother's.

"Momma?"

People are beginning to notice the tension radiating from the front now. The air is thick with something far more dangerous than the ambivalent attitude minutes previously. Swallowing over a lump in her throat, Ziva grabs the phones from her pocket, turning it over and pressing it against her daughter's chest, where her hands immediately come up to grasp it.

"Remember what we talked about? You, your father, and I, yes?" The little girl looks around, towards the yelling that grows in volume near the front of the line. Ziva tugs at her hand, reeling in her attention. "Remember what we said, if you are ever in trouble?"

She looks around uneasily, licking her lips. "Yes."

Ziva nods, fumbling with their joined hands. "Good." She nods, and pulls her closer. Her voice now becomes deadly serious. "Now listen to me. You remember how to call your grandfather?" When she nods, Ziva grasps her tightly, blinks harshly against the dread spread through her body as she sees two men unobtrusively walk to stand before the exit.

For now, they do not see her.

It's the exact opportunity she needs.

"Come here," She pulls her daughter in for a tight hug, and a determined look of resolve settles over the little girl's face. She hugs her back, takes a deep breath. Her lips brush against Ziva's ear, her breathing quick.

"Hide?"

Her warm breath tickles her ear, and Ziva tries to control the fear in her voice.

She murmurs back.

"Now. Go."

Ziva clicks 2 and _send_ on the phone between them just as the little girl wheels and walks slowly through a throng of people, disappearing in a whirl of winter coats and men and women all walking toward a hall off the center of the building. There's a flash of pink backpack near the restroom, but it quickly disappears behind a heavy door whose knob turns to the left. Its yanked from the inside once, but resists the tug and stays shut.

She allows herself a moment of brief relief. And then the gunshots start.

* * *

A phone's ring interrupts his Senior Field Agent's laughter. Abby's reply. McGee's story.

He chucks his coffee cup into the trashcan beside his desk.

"About damn time, David. We've got a-"

"Grandpa?"

The small voice stops him cold, and he's not sure if the sirens at that moment are echoing through the city streets and building, or from the phone against his ear.


End file.
